diary: A weeklong electronic journal.

Abraham Sutherland

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Posted Friday, July 20, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET

Thursday 19 July 2001 14:20, company lot. A half dozen cabs are waiting for the computer-installation guy to fix their systems. I wait two hours and leave with a new computer and GPS antenna.

16:35, LAPD Southeast Division, 108^th and Main. Around 1 a.m. on Monday, June 11, my colleague and fellow Bell Cab driver Hak Choon Chun was found shot to death not far from this police station. I'm here to see if there has been any progress on the investigation since I called three weeks ago. The homicide detective handling the case is out.

Chun was not robbed: Apparently the killer just wanted to drive himself to Riverside, which is where the cab was found five hours later. Chun is survived in this country by his wife, mother, and four children. After Chun's memorial service, a procession of green taxicabs followed the hearse to the cemetery.

I talk to the desk officers. "Southeast Division is 13 square miles, maybe 50,000 residents. We've got 48 different gangs. We lead the city in homicides: 28 so far in 2001," I'm told.

"What about Rampart Division? They seem pretty busy."

"Rampart Division. Ha. You've been reading too much Time magazine." He seems slighted. "They're, like, fourth in the city. I don't think they've hit 20 yet."

We discuss the $25,000 reward the city council has just approved. He doubts it will help.

I tell him I've applied for a concealed-carry permit. "Who do you think you are, Edward James Olmos? You won't get it."

In terms of risking on-the-job homicide, driving a taxi is the most dangerous job in America. The homicide risk is 60 times the national average and four times that of police officers.

Since Californians over the age of 18 may carry a firearm for self-defense in their place of business, it is not clear that I even need a permit. I try this out on the officer.

"If I were a taxi driver I'm not sure how much I'd care about what the law says. But right now my job is to try to enforce the law. I leave that to the judge."

I applied for my permit before Chun was murdered, about 6 weeks ago. Yesterday, I got my first response: a sheaf of forms essentially asking me to repeat what I've already done.

19:15, South Central. Two black pimps. The names they give me sound like pit bulls'. As one leaves the cab to check up on a girl, the other tells me about his sideline: "I work paper. I create identities, then cash in." He's proud of what he does but won't tell me more.

It's a round trip, and as we approach home one of them says, "What do you mean, $9.30 already? I'm going to pay you five dollars. It's like this: We're just starting to get to know each other. If things work out we'll be taking real good care of you." Meter $10.10; with tip $5.

19:50, L.A. Convention Center. The inventor of Wine Loops, from the Los Angeles Gift Show back to his hotel: "At parties where glasses all look the same/ Use a loop to stake your claim. That Wine Is Mine."

22:10, Wilshire and Rampart Boulevard. A serious accident involving a city bus closes down the intersection.

23:20. Local TV news reports that the accident involved a cab, a Bell Cab. Dispatch solicits drivers willing to investigate.

23:55, Slauson and Normandie. A slow-moving eastbound freight threatens to trap me down south. I beat it east and cross the tracks at Figueroa.

Friday 20 July 00:05. I arrive on the scene just after another driver, J. Looks bad. We play detective alongside the LAPD. Bus traveling west on Wilshire, a collision at the Rampart intersection, 70 feet of skid marks cutting diagonally across the boulevard, the bus at rest on the sidewalk pinning a badly damaged taxicab. The front right door of the Chevy Caprice is mangled and wrenched all the way forward. The driver's side of the car is wrapped around the front left corner of the bus.

J. takes photographs. I look for witnesses to interview, pace off distances, and report back to headquarters. I still don't know who the driver was. His permit's not in its holder and I can't find a cop who knows anything more than that he's alive and in the hospital.

00:35. The cab is on the tow truck, ready to be driven away. J. taps me on the shoulder. "Wait a second. This isn't us." He points to the door, which lacks the city permit decal. "This is a bandit. I could have sworn our 691 was a Crown Vic and not a Caprice. I was right."

The doors weren't visible until the cab was dislodged from the bus, but immediately I feel like an idiot.

This Caprice was once a real Bell Cab, but I've been a lousy investigator. There's no on-board computer, and one of the phone numbers on the cab doesn't look right. I call it and it's disconnected.

But wait. J. and I aren't the only detectives here. There are a dozen cops milling around, comparing notes and filling out reports.

One of them says, "Wow, how do you know it's not yours?"

I explain the 10-inch decal that is missing from the sides.

"Decal?"

"You know, officer, you're well within your powers to give $200 tickets to drivers of cabs like this."

"I handle real calls, like burglaries and rapes."

01:45, Olympic and Colby, West Los Angeles. "570 … 570 you've got a personal calling, from down south. Guy with a name like a pro wrestler's."

"Forget it, I'm going home. 570 checking out."

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Posted Friday, July 20, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET